Chapter 2

Wentworth woke to the sound of persistent scratching. Looking around, he remembered the hide, and how the carefully laid plans to recover the Baron's Bride had gone all arsy-versy when he discovered Anne Elliot—

A soft moan met his ears and a slight weight shifted about his chest. "What is that noise?" Anne’s breath caressed his throat as she whispered.

He liked the way she clutched his shirt, but endeavoured to give his answer the proper gravity to match her concern. "It is a fox, or a dog. They have caught the scent of—" He didn't think it wise to mention her wounds and the blood. "—us. They think we have food." He stroked her arm. "They can't get in, the door is far too heavy."

She said nothing in reply, and soon her breathing was regular and shallow.

The harsh wind still lashed at the entry, and he considered the time. His inner clock assured him it was still nighttime while his elbow shrieked with pain. None of that mattered. Anne was in his arms and they were snug and warm. He felt around to see that she was still covered. After she'd fallen to sleep, he'd pulled her onto his lap, like a child, and now he was sore and cramped because of it. He shifted her a little and straightened his arm. There was no choice but to let it rest across her waist. There was no choice but to enjoy the intimacy of their predicament.

He woke again, not sure how much time had gone by and noticed the wind was easing. Thankfully, the pain in his elbow had ceased. He rested his head against the bale of wool. For a moment, he thought himself an idiot for not cutting the cords and opening it, giving them a more comfortable, and no doubt warmer place to sleep. As he thought of the more comfortable circumstances, his imagination soon wandered down dangerous roads. Along with comfort, there would still be their enforced closeness, and his enjoyment of it. He knew himself well enough that with no impediments of pain or discomfort, there would have been no barriers to his desire.

Anne shifted. Her small, sharp elbow dug into his ribs. He gasped as quietly as possible and reconsidered the dangers of his previous thoughts.

*  *  *

Anne opened her eyes but immediately closed them against the harsh shaft of light filling the hide. Her head ached along with all her joints, and she was still as cold as when they climbed into the miserable hole. She gradually opened her eyes, and saw that Frederick was looking outside. "Is the fox gone?"

He looked at her, but was still deep in thought. "Yes, it is. They're only on the prowl at night." He lowered the hatch, but pulled close a stone to keep it from closing entirely. He had completely dressed; waistcoat, coat, neck cloth, and boots.  He held out her spencer to her. She took it, but the idea of putting on the garment was overwhelming.

Frederick moved close. Thankfully, he blocked the sun from her eyes. He smiled, and to her annoyance, looked rested. "The sun is well up and the dew long gone. For all the heaving and blowing, there was no rain last night.” He patted the coat vaguely. “I've no more linings with which to dress your feet, so I kept these for you." He held up his own stockings. "I thought we could put them over the dressings. They will help to keep your feet a bit warm."

Anne took them and held them along with the jacket. "I don’t believe I have the strength to walk." Her feet ached more than her head or her joints. "I do not feel well at all."

He scowled for an instant, and then leaning forward, pressed his lips to her forehead. He was cool, and his unshaven chin grazed her soft skin. She remained still, unsure what he was about, for unbidden affection was hardly to be expected under the circumstances.

Frederick sat back, thinking. They stared at one another for a moment. "That is how my mother would check for fever."

She was shocked at his casualness. Without warning, she burst out laughing.

"Why do you laugh?"

She could not stop laughing try as she might. Eventually she mastered herself. "Did you ever use that method to check for fever in your crewmen?" She put her hand over her mouth and laughed some more.

For a mere instant, Frederick looked disgusted. Just as quickly the look changed to amusement. "Hardly. That was the province of the ship's surgeon. I cannot vouch for his methods." He was still amazingly close, and he stared with an intensity she had not known since his departure from Somerset.

The moment was sweet and Anne was taken back to a summer garden in the year ’06. The damp, dank hide was gone and the smell of roses was everywhere. Frederick’s brother, a curate in a nearby parish, had introduced them early in the summer season. Over the course of the next month, she had made a point of engaging in conversation with him whenever they met. Her limited knowledge of the wider world made her wonder at his stories of life at sea. They were just the perfect blend of explanations of life aboard ship, wry observations his fellow officers and the men who served under him, and the battles and engagements which had brought him to the notice of his superiors. The stories allowed her to know him more intimately and moreover understand him as a man. Even with other young ladies hanging on his every word, she fancied he told them with such energy and wit just for her.

Summer was passing and with each social engagement that brought them together, it was more and more clear to the natives that the lieutenant had made his choice. Anne did not even recognise herself as the victor until one evening she noticed him entering the garden of Pooles. He was one of many guests invited to their weekly rout, and while young ladies unreservedly offered him their company as he crossed the lawn, he offered up just enough politeness to keep him in their good graces, but nothing more. When he spotted her, he came straight to her and began to tell her about his brother and a set-to he had with a neighbour. The story itself was mundane, but his telling of it was bewitching.

As he continued, Anne knew herself to be in love with him.

His intensity of spirit and enjoyment of the simplicities of life, were captivating. Everything he deigned to touch in her small, cloistered world, took on a brightness that was at once unfamiliar, enchanting, and a little bit frightening to her. And here they were again, in a tiny world that was only large enough for the two of them.

Suddenly, Anne was again exhausted and nothing seemed funny or even pleasant.

"You are not very feverish, but you are a bit warm."

She pulled the coat close. "I am cold, and I am very thirsty."

He nodded and reached into the coat, pulling a small bag from an interior pocket. "You likely swallowed a lot of water last night. All that salt is working on you." He handed her a round, flat, lightly browned bun. It was stiff, and very light. "It's a ship's biscuit."

She handed it back immediately. "I remember you telling me about these. They are always infested with weevils, you said." Merely touching it made her queasy.

Frederick laughed. "It was fresh Tuesday. It's had no chance to become infested, I assure you." She took it back and took a hesitant bite.

She chewed and scowled. "It has absolutely no flavour." She examined it closely despite his assurances.

"May I?" He broke off a small bite for himself. "It is astonishing that something made from good, wholesome, English corn, flavourful in practically any other application, can be stripped completely of any sort of character. It is quite a miracle, I think."

His cheeriness and good humour would have won her over any other time. But, this morning, it was a little tiresome. She wished fervently she could feel differently. She offered him the last of the biscuit.

He took it and ate it up. "As soon as I find some fresh water, it is yours."

She began to put on the spencer, but his heavy coat got in the way. The cramped quarters worked against her, and her weak limbs made the chore nearly impossible. He knelt before her and without a word, guided her hands and arms in the proper places, and then pulled it closed and buttoned it for her. He then pushed up the hatch, stood, and offered her a hand.

She held tightly as she willed herself to rise. "I still don't think I can walk." Her feet smarted when her full weight was on them, and her legs ached all the more.

Without warning, he lifted her onto the ledge of the hide. "I never expected you to walk. I will carry you." He leaned on the ledge, his hands on either side of her. He did not move.

The wind was light, the air smelled fresh and strongly of the nearby sea. The chill and scent were refreshing after their night in such close quarters. "You cannot do that." She looked about, and said, "I see nothing of civilisation, what if it is a great distance to help?"

He scoffed. "You are light as a pin—I would be surprised if you are more than nine, nine-and-a-half stone." He handed her the coat and jumped out of the pit in one smooth motion.

She took his hand and struggled to her feet. "How can you know such a thing?" He too was looking around, most likely calculating what direction they should walk.

He was resolved and pointed towards the north. "You have been laying on me all night. I have had considerable time to make estimations."

Initially, the idea that he'd given her much thought at all was pleasing, and annoying. However, before she could give her annoyance voice, while remaining silent on the pleasurable aspects of it, he offered up the coat. "On it goes."

She began to comply, and then stopped herself. "You should wear the coat. It is after all yours."

"Yes, but you are not up to a long walk," he said, as he took her hand and placed it in the sleeve. "I will be carrying you. And though you are very light, even a light load, after time, is an effort. I shall be warm enough thanks to you." He continued to put her in the garment.

His point was very sensible and completely unassailable. To have her own sentiments handed back to her with such ease reminded her how capable he was in presenting the rightness of his thinking. She silently surrendered as he buttoned the coat. In a moment, he picked her up with such grace and ease that perhaps he was right about her weighing so little.

*  *  *

At first, she encircled his neck and endeavoured to take some of her weight off his arms, but she was too tired and soon had to allow him to be a hero. At present, she was asleep. The sleep was good for her, and put off the misery of thirst and hunger. Her dozy state was also to his liking as she did not gasp when his footing slipped on the stones that made up the shingle. While he missed her company, journeying by foot was simpler this way.

He too was getting terribly thirsty and stopped to examine the countryside for any signs of fresh water, or habitation.

Relief came when he noticed a curl of smoke against the dark backdrop of stunted trees and rocks.

He could not see precisely from where the smoke rose, so estimation was tricky. His arms ached, but he dared not put her down lest she wake. He took a deep breath, concentrated on the roar of the sea, and headed to the smoke.

As he approached a stand of trees—the smoke seemed to be coming right from the centre of them—Wentworth heard a low barking voice as he drew closer to the source. It gave him hope of a respite.

In a few minutes, he heard some remarkably loud and abundant cursing from little distance ahead. There was no telling precisely what the sharp voices meant—considering the mission to find and apprehend smugglers on which he found himself—he considered avoiding the place all together. All the same, their need for water, and hope of a place to rest for a while was more important than perhaps offending her sensibilities with what would most likely turn out to be nothing more than crude society born of isolation.

The trees thinned considerably and he could see the source of the noise. In front of badly neglected cottage, a bent, ancient man was directing a tall, powerfully built younger man in chopping wood. It seemed the younger man was not so talented in the chore. Wentworth watched for a few minutes to gain his bearings of the area and the men. Each time the younger man tried to strike the upright stick of wood, it skittered away. Occasionally, it struck the old man in the shins. When that happened, he certainly didn’t thank the youth, but gave him a thoroughgoing tongue lashing in Gaelic. It was a farce worthy of a theatre.

Wentworth recognised the language thanks to a dear Irish friend of many shared commissions. On their first voyage together, the friend showed his frustration with Wentworth’s ignorance of the life by cursing him out in a foreign tongue. It was soon learnt the tongue was Gaelic, and after winning a bet, Wentworth demanded to be taught enough of the language to hold his own. To his credit, while the captain would never be mistaken as a native, he could find food, drink, female company, and even respectably outfit a ship in spoken or written Gaelic. Again, taking into account the likelihood that these men were smugglers, or were connected to that crime in some way, it might serve him well if these fellows thought him to be a poor fellow Irishman forced to live in England, and sail her cruel waters in order to earn his daily bread.

Bold as a tomcat, Wentworth entered the clearing around the house. He saw a rough bench near the door and made for it. As he settled Anne, he took stock of the yard and the cottage. The small house lived up to, and surpassed his first impression of gross neglect. There were numerous jumbled piles of split wood leaning against the walls of the cottage and about the yard. There was more than enough to keep the place like an oven for the entire winter, or, enough wood to fuel very bright signal fires whenever necessary. The man also had a penchant for buckets. Most were broken and rotting away into the sandy soil. Others were upright and perhaps still contained whatever they were meant to hold. None looked new, or cared for in any way. Wentworth could examine no more without raising suspicions, so he took a seat next to Anne. The bench screeched, waggling a bit. He prayed it would not toss them into a heap on the ground if it broke apart. 

The woodcutters had stopped their enterprise and were watching the couple closely. They said nothing but stared intently. It was then the captain noticed the younger man had almost freakishly large hands. The handle of the axe looked like a spindly stick in his grasp. The old fellow was the most weathered man of any Wentworth had ever encountered. Both were deeply suspicious of their sudden company, and for a moment, he regretted bringing Anne into what could very well be a deeply dangerous circumstance. 

Nevertheless, Anne was rousing a bit and it was too late to retreat. She pulled the coat closer and then nodded to the men. She did not notice their lack of manners, or was too exhausted to say so, sighed and leant against his shoulder.

If he could beg some water, and perhaps a scrap of bread, they would be on their way. He now felt his decision was terribly wrong. If he played as innocent as a lamb, and presented themselves as poor travellers, perhaps he could get them out without a mishap. "Would you have some water? My friend is in great need." He salted his request with what he hoped would be enough of an accent to gain a little trust.

The old man drew a dirty kerchief from his coat pocket and blew his nose, but made no move to answer the plea. The younger man shifted from one foot to the other, looking now and then to the older man. Neither did any more to assist them.

Wentworth was about to ask again, when the old man called: "Aine." Wentworth had not noticed any noise inside the cottage, but now there was the sound of several pairs of feet. The door to the cottage creaked open, and a woman emerged from the shadows. He first noticed she was rather tall, and very large with child. The man pointed to the bench.

She turned to them and smiled. 

Wentworth was shocked. The woman was the most beautiful he had ever seen.

She greeted them, and then went to the woodcutting pair.

Despite her condition, the woman moved with grace and a sort of languid ease. Her hair was wonderfully thick auburn, and straining to break free of the combs that held it in check. Lovely green eyes competed for supremacy with rosy cheeks, and a nose lightly dusted with pale freckles. This woman was no poor drudge, the likes of which one would expect to find attached to either of these rustic characters. In Gaelic, she asked the old man who the visitors were and he replied in less-than-flattering terms they were English strangers come to leech off him. The younger man laughed and let the axe swing down from his shoulder. As recompense for his derision, the heavy axe head bashed the splitting block, and bouncing back to clout him in the leg. The old man finally found something amusing.

Wentworth found his bearings and directed his statement to the woman. "My friend and I need some water."

"It looks as if you need more than water." Aine responded in English and then moved towards the door. To someone inside, she gestured and said, "Shoo, you two peepers." He heard children giggling and light steps fading away. "Bring her in the house." Aine disappeared inside.

Wentworth was about to rise and see to Anne when the old man called to Aine, and began a fine Gaelic tirade. The old man had a limp and had to struggle to drag one leg as he went to the cottage. The younger man looked at Anne and Wentworth and decided it was better to watch the spectacle unfolding in the cottage. He slammed the door, causing a fine shower of dust from the eaves to fall on Anne.

She did not seem to notice. She leant her head against the house and sighed. "All this over a cup of water. I thought the Irish were a very hospitable people." Anne straightened and looked down at herself. With more energy than she had shown the whole morning, she brushed the sleeves of the coat and smoothed her dress. Now and again, she glanced to the door. The heated voices drifting out were embarrassing. "I can just imagine what these sort of people say to one another."

Anne said this with perfect seriousness, without a hint of sarcasm or disdain. Laughter was Wentworth's first instinct. This he subdued immediately. His next thought was that, very likely, her understanding of the sort of people with whom they were dealing was a mere abstraction, based on nothing more real then sensationalised accounts of the plight of the poor, and observations made on market days when she was forced to mingle with "these sorts." Her sheltered life at Kellynch Hall made her ignorant of the true depth of struggle, sorrow, and fear that life meted out to much of the world. He was truly thankful that she was so unburdened with the truth, and free to be so naive, for he, on the other hand, knew many aspects of their life all too well.

He was also glad that while this dear girl may comprehend the argument that raged within was all about the two of them landed on the doorstep, she would have absolutely no knowledge of the sorts of words they were using, and would be horrified if he told her. These observations were just the sort of differences between them that made their earlier break up understandable.

Rather than answer her, he rose and began to look about the cottage. As expected, there were a few more rotting buckets here and there. Around the side of the house, he found someone had been making wattle. There was a low stool, on the sunny side of the house, where they sat to split and weave twigs and branches from nearby bushes. Bladed tools lay discarded in the grass. There was also a bucket of water with a dipper sitting close at hand. The water looked uncontaminated. He ladled some out and smelt of it. He was surprised, and relieved, it was not fetid as he might expect by the look of the place. He took a swallow and deeming it wholesome, brought a full dipper to Anne. "They may not be all that hospitable, but I have found some water. If we drink fast, we may be gone by the time they finish rowing." She smiled at this. "I'll hold the cup, you drink."

She touched the rim of the dipper and the handle, near his hand, to guide it. Her eyes closed at the touch of the cold water. She swallowed and said, "It is wonderful. Here, you have some." She offered it with a smile.

He took a little, leaving her the remaining. "It is good. Either we are both so dry we will drink anything, or there is a spring nearby that supplies them." He offered her the rest, which she took, and then he went for more. Just on the other side of the water bucket, he noticed a scrap of leather laying on the ground. He nearly dismissed it as more trash, but as he looked away, he saw clearly the outline of a fair-sized square. It occurred to him that this would be the perfect location for a hide, surrounded as it was by the unassuming landscape. He itched to look inside, for it was not overgrown and might be in use just now. If there was an opportunity, he would make a search, but at the moment it was more important to see to Anne. As he was dipping out more water, he heard the door bang open. He looked around the corner and saw the three step out.

The younger man went back to the woodpile, while the older man paused before the bench. He stabbed the air, pointing at Anne, snapping at Aine, "You see, that cur left her here. Send her off—"

Wentworth dropped the dipper, which clattered to the ground, drawing their attention. He got between the man and Anne. "I've not left her, and all we wish is some water—" He prayed his long-neglected Gaelic was understandable.

"—which you found! And stole!" The old man jabbed him in the chest. Wentworth looked down and saw that water had splashed his waistcoat.

"Tomas! The water comes from the sky, for heaven's sake. Moreover, the woman is obviously ill. Leave her be." Aine spoke English this time. She sidestepped Wentworth, and said to Anne, "Miss, I hope to help you." She then laid her hand on Anne's forehead. He observed there was a thin band of gold on her ring finger. Aine turned to him and asked that he bring her in the house.

When the old man realised what was coming about, he said in heavily accented English, "Stray dogs bite, Aine." Wentworth hesitated to take Anne even deeper into the oppressive and perhaps volatile situation.

Aine turned to the man. "You are truly poor when you cannot show the slightest bit of Christian charity, Tomas. Our bread comes from the hand of others. The lest we can do is give it freely." She motioned them to follow.

Wentworth knelt before Anne. "I think this is our best hope right now, but if you wish it, we will move on."

Anne's eyes pleaded for relief, but she said nothing. Wentworth knew she was too exhausted and confused to add her thoughts. She needed him to settle on a course of action and take care of her. He took her in his arms and picked her up. It was surly a trick of his mind that she felt even lighter than she had earlier. As he passed into the darkness of the interior, he could hear Tomas mutter some colourful Gaelic profanities. He then punctuated them by spitting.

*  *  *

The cottage was one large room, and Aine pointed to a bed in the farthest corner. "Put her here, and we will see to her." He scanned the room for others and saw two small, stick-thin girls standing by a table. Wentworth followed Aine's instructions and gently placed Anne on the bed. He knelt and began to unbutton the coat.

Aine was by his side. "I see no ring, sir." He glanced up. Her expression had lost its lightness. "If you are not her husband, you have no business doing this."

He took his hands away. "No, we are not married. But we are good friends and I have been helping her—"

"There is no need of that now. The girls and I shall care for Miss—"

"Elliot. Her name is Anne Elliot."

Aine rose, taking his arm as he helped her. "Miss Elliot is in capable hands, Mr—"

"Wentworth. Captain Frederick Wentworth."

"A man of the sea?"

"Yes, I am a sailor."

"So are most of my family. We shall all get on splendidly. Now, you go out and use what I think is your considerable charm on Tomas. As you heard, he is not fond of strangers." She smiled and called the girls to her.

This woman was truly amazing. Her beauty aside, her manners demonstrated she was not born to this sort of life. She, in fact, by her speech, might be closer to knowing of Anne's way of life than he. The strangeness of the circumstance and contrary nature of those involved was growing more pronounced with each passing episode. 

Wentworth did as Aine instructed him. And while he came to an understanding with Tomas, he did not truly win him over. But, the peace held through the day, and as he now sat overseeing the fire, he hoped that his efforts paid off with Anne’s full recovery.

*  *  *

She was finally warm. Delightfully so in fact. The sheets of the bed she occupied were soft and smelled freshly laundered. She was not certain why such mundane things as warmth and clean sheets would make her feel so cheerful, but they did. There was also the sound of a fire and the scent of cheese toasting. Her stomach protested its emptiness. Even with all of this, she had no strong urge to move or investigate her surroundings. To remain quiet and comfortable was enough.

The sound of metal clattering onto stone and a hushed male voice swearing a mild oath rouse her curiosity enough that she opened her eyes. A bright blaze drew her attention and she turned her head to see Frederick Wentworth, shirt collar standing wide open, staring at her. He stood frozen, a knife in one hand and a slab of cheese—melting cheese—in the other. Neither of them spoke until a crown-sized gob of the cheese oozed off the slab and landed on the top of his bare foot. Again he swore.

He was attending to his foot when she asked, “What are you doing here?” His presence was most welcome, but quite unexpected after a two-year absence. As she waited for a reply, she looked about and realised she did not even know where “here” was, and that his answer was more significant than she originally thought.

The fire cast an orange light, which caused his puzzled look to take on a sinister sort of glow. He put down the knife and the cheese, and moved carefully toward her.  The two of them might as well have been the only man and woman in the world, for outside the fire’s light was nothing but pitch-blackness.

He was by her side, but she felt his unease as he looked away to the other side of the room. When he turned back, he smiled. "How are you feeling?"

Anne still had no idea where they were, but his manner made her feel safe. "Well enough. I am tired though, very tired. What is this place? And what are you doing here?" His lack of an answer did not disturb her as it might have years ago.

"We are staying in the cottage of Tomas and Aine." His expression was troubled. "Do you not remember the Baron's Bride?"

She thought for a moment. The words sounded familiar, but held no special meaning, nothing which begged her to concentrate and remember fully. "Vaguely. Who is she?"

Wentworth was about to speak, but chose to go back to the fire and melt again the cheese, spreading it on some bread he'd left on the hearth. When he returned, he helped her sit up and gave her the bread. "You must be hungry." He cut small chunks of cheese and ate them as he watched her.

The toasted cheese was delicious. "This is the best thing I've had to eat in ages." She almost didn't care where they were, or who Tomas and Aine might be. They were comfortable and snug in this tiny cottage—with each bite of the cheese bread, she remembered about the ship and sailing to Ireland with her father and sister. There had been a chase and a battle. She remembered his coming to her.

It was disappointing to remember earlier events. Everything outside this moment, everything outside this cottage became tainted with the knowledge of his fall from grace.

"You remember it all, do you not?"

"You always were perceptive."

"I have to be."

Without thinking, she reached out and touched a long white smudge on his cheek. It resisted her touch. Realising what she’d done, she was shocked by her own casual handing of him. “Why is there a smear of white on your face?" She struggled to keep her voice steady, then noticed more of the white stuff on his hands, pants, and speckling his shirt.

Wentworth smiled and glanced down. "It seems our host has built another room onto this cottage and needed help to finish the interior walls. I am painting and plastering in exchange for our generous accommodations."

"And what do you know of painting and plastering?"

"All sailors know how to paint. When there is nothing else to do, a good coat of paint will keep a crew marvellously employed for an afternoon." She had finished the toast, and he offered her piece of raw cheese. "As for the plastering, Tomas is pleasantly surprised that I am not a complete booby at it. So, perhaps my fortune should be sought at the end of a trowel."

Anne smiled and thought that while such a shift in careers would do nothing to elevate Frederick in the eyes of her father, but it would certainly be more desirable than smuggling. "Well, thank you for working to keep us sheltered. I now remember that last night was very uncomfortable." She wanted to add only because of the cold and not in any way the company, but she thought it best not to delve too deeply into the matter.

It was then she realised Frederick was looking at her in an odd way. It made her uncomfortable and she was about to ask what was the matter when he spoke. "Keeping you safe was my only desire then, as it is now." He looked away and then moved back to the fire. "How are your feet? Are they still sore from the cuts?"

She was happy to find that she'd completely forgotten about her painful feet. When she reached down she found they were no longer wrapped, and when she touched each one, she could feel the sores, but they caused her no pain. "They are practically healed. I do remember Aine putting an unguent on them. It burned like fire for quite some time. She gave me a draught of what I thought was wine, but now I realise it was something else, as it had a pungent aftertaste of mint."

"That drink must be why you slept through the day. In fact, so that you did not miss the Christmas Eve feast, Aine has postponed it until tomorrow. Her nieces were extraordinarily disappointed when Cavan took them home." He was spreading more cheese on a slice of bread.

"Are those girls his granddaughters?"

Frederick glanced her way. "No, they are Cavan's girls. He is Aine brother."

"But he is so old."

Wentworth paused for a moment. "Ah, no, the old man is Tomas and he is married to Aine. I think. There have been no proper introductions other than mine to them."

Anne was certainly used to the notion of much older man marrying younger woman, but this pairing seemed quite wrong somehow. While she seemed to remember the younger man was not particularly bright, she did remember that the man Tomas was mean and vulgar, and that Aine was very beautiful.

Aine was very kind to her when she helped her get into bed, and then to tend to her. Anne thought that such beauty deserved something better than a vile old man. Quite unbidden, she remembered that Aine was with child. The thought of Tomas as a father was revolting.

Frederick fetched a cup of water. "I know it is off-putting, the thought of him, but he is grudgingly allowing us to stay under his roof. Such as it is."

She took the cup and drank again of the wonderful water. "Yes, he is. That is something." When she gave him the cup, her fingers brushed his. And he did not pull away. "Where are you sleeping?"

He gestured towards the hearth. "There. I said I would feed the fire through the night. Tomas informed me that would use too much wood. The old codger and I argued for some time, but I was eventually allowed to go out and cut a decent supply for the night." She looked and saw his handiwork, a great pile of wood just to the left of the hearth.

She also saw no bed for him. "But you have nothing to sleep on. Or any covering."

He lifted the arm of his great coat, spread on the bed. "You need it more. Besides, Tomas reasoned that were I too much at ease, I would neglect my task. He pointed out the cold will awaken me and I will not fail to do my duty." He laughed a little.

"Tomas is a very hard man."

"You do not know the half of it, Anne."

*  *  *

There had been little else spoken between the two of them the previous night. They had wished one another a good night. Anne silently added silently pleasant dreams. Both had likely remained awake, thinking of the other, for some time after.

In the morning, Anne congratulated herself on waking before the rest of the household. When she opened her eyes, she found the day was much further along than she thought.

Frederick was gone from his post at the hearth, and Aine silently moved about clearing up after breakfast. What was more surprising was to be faced by the young girls.

Neither had been introduced to her by name the day before, and neither in the course of helping her to undress, or in getting into the bed had they offered one. In fact, Anne could not recall ever hearing either girl speak. However, she was now faced with them both, quietly gazing upon her. The darker of the two—having medium brown hair like herself, with blue eyes—was carefully holding her dress. The other—smaller, more frail, with reddish hair and green eyes—was holding a neatly folded pile of undergarments and a pair of blue kid slippers.

When Anne sat up, the smaller girl said Aine's name and she was instantly by the bed. "So, you are feeling better?" She helped her to stand, and said she would help her dress. She sent the older girl too keep watch of the door. "It won't do to have one of 'em blunderin' in here just now," Aine said with a smile.

Her dress was freshly laundered, though not pressed, as were the under things. She was astonished when the shoes fit perfectly, and that they were of such quality that even her sister could not object to them, despite their source.

"The gentlemen are at their work. Tomas is sure they can finish today, before supper I am hoping. And speaking of the supper, after you have had some porridge and beer, I shall need you to help me."

Sir Walter took pride in the fact that his daughters were completely ignorant of the domestic arts. Elizabeth had managed Kellynch Hall since she was sixteen-years-old, at the death of her mother. Anne had begun to learn when she returned from school, and was now even more knowledgeable in the overall than her sister. Though both understood the general management of a fine country estate, it was deemed more important that both knew how to direct those servants hired to do a particular task than to know how to perform the task itself. This being the case, when Aine set a large bowl full of flour, a wooden spoon, and crocks of died fruits before her, Anne was completely baffled. Aine noticed the look and gave her instruction to, "mix all the fruits and the flour with the pitcher at hand." She then put before Anne a board with two glistening kidneys nestled in lumps of milky white fat. "They are fresh this morning. Cavan brought them when he brought the girls. When you finish with the flour and water, mix in the suet." She went off to see to the rest of the meal. A large knife was within reach, and Anne pondered how to attack the kidneys.

She picked up the spoon and began to mix the contents of the various crocks, bowls, pitchers, and pots together. It was a simple enough request, and Anne was willing but found her efforts awkward at best.

When she had mixed as much as she thought necessary, she watched Aine for a moment. With a practiced ease, the woman peeled and sliced several potatoes for a gratin she was putting together. Anne marvelled as her hands easily manoeuvred the foods and all the various tools of the kitchen.

When she returned her attention to her task, she was immediately disappointed with her, comparatively, clumsy results. All had gone well until she poured a small cup of beer into the flour and it became stiff and sticky. The mass was so unwieldy, as she endeavoured to mix, it pulled the spoon out of her hand several times. After adding the kidneys, it was worse than ever. At one point she was ready to admit defeat, but thought of Frederick.

For her sake, he was willing to paint and plaster, occupations which were foreign to him, and he did not retreat because of difficulty. He would be her example. She pushed on to thoroughly mix the pudding. 

Aine was back and forth between the hearth and the worktable, making no comments and leaving Anne to her task for quite some time it seemed. When she finally did join her, Aine looked over bowl. A scowl barely touched her forehead.

"Is this the first meal you've helped to cook, Miss Anne?"

"Yes. My father forbade us to cook. He thought it more important that our time be spent in refined pursuits."

A smile touched Aine's lips. "Well, Miss Anne, I think that knowing how to feed oneself, and others, is important. And cooking can be quite a refined pursuit depending on the food and people you are feeding. I shall finish up my dish, and then help you further." They both looked to the gratin. All the slices, perfectly spaced, spiralled tightly around the oval dish. Aine left her to ponder this new idea about cooking, and her pathetic attempt at the pudding.

Stamping feet and loud voices from the new room caused both women to look its way. Tomas grumbled as he took the one small step up into the main room, then shuffled outside. Wentworth stood in the doorway, watching the ladies and wiping his hands on a rag. "So what is it now?" Aine poured cream over the potatoes and pressed them to distribute the liquid throughout the ingredients. "By the sound of it, the two of you have been getting along so well."

Wentworth laughed and tossed the rag away. "Yes, if you call his swearing at me under his breath getting along. He is angry because I keep things too tidy. He thinks it a flaw somehow." He came to stand next to Anne. He took a pinch of currants from a bowl.

Aine raised a spoon. "Eh, stay out of the goods, Captain." She smiled and wiped her hands. "Tomas is put off by any sort of civilised behaviour, I think." She took the dish to the hearth and placed it to one side of the fire, and checked other dishes baking, roasting, and braising. "Miss Anne is making the Christmas pudding, sir. She is doing very well at it." A large joint of beef now had Aine's attention.

Wentworth studied the hearth for a moment. “Beef for our feast. That is rare in these parts.”

Aine continued her work. “A blessing from heaven,” was all she said.

He made reply, turned and looked into the bowl Anne was using. "It looks very…" Anne did not think the pause boded well for her efforts. He must think her a simpleton without an ability to make the pudding tempting in some way.

Suddenly a mound of sugar and red powder were flung into the bowl.

They looked up. Aine was dusting off her hands. "Can't forget the sugar and spice. It is the spice that makes everything worth the while. Do you not agree, sir?" She looked particularly at Wentworth with an easy smile that made Anne pause for a moment. "Get that mixed in good then we'll wrap it." Aine was finishing up the meat and moving onto another course for the Christmas dinner.

Anne stared at the batter in the bowl. There were few times when she felt completely inferior. Put upon and overlooked, yes, but truly inferior to someone in her midst, rarely. Until now.

The harsh ringing of something metal against the bowl roused her out of her pitiable bout of self-absorption. Frederick held up a spoon. "May I have a taste?"

She took the wooden spoon and began to stir. "It is not yet mixed very well."

He took a huge dollop of batter and dipped it in the reddish sugar. "This will give me a fair idea of what it will taste like." He rolled it about in his mouth, held it for a long moment, and then swallowed. Looking into his eyes, she could see not only sympathy, but she could see his resolve to eat poison if needed to prove himself. Before she could protest this antic as ridiculous, he made quite a show of licking the spoon clean. "Ah, a Christmas pudding to remember." Tomas bellowed from the other room. "My Master begs me to join him." He put down the spoon, winked at her, and left them.

Aine gave a final, thorough stir to the pudding batter. While pouring it into a cloth-lined bowl, she said, "He is smitten. How long have you and the Captain been together?"

It was not so much the question that put Anne on her guard, but the tone with which Aine asked it. While Anne was somewhat sheltered, she easily guessed that Aine's meaning of 'together' was not in the most innocent sense. In this case, she thought, shading the truth was acceptable. "Together? Only for the last two days." It was an exceedingly awkward question and even answering it, Anne had to avert her eyes. However, she could not help a glance at Aine after a second or two. The woman was just looking away, but her smile seemed one of amusement.

Aine moved a bowl closer to Anne. She took a pinch of salt, and then pepper, and a few other spices. As she amended the dish, Anne was sure the woman studied her with an interest more intense than formerly. All such notice was upended when Tomas and Frederick again walked through the room to the outer door. However, this time, Tomas was less discrete about his reproach of the captain.

The door slammed and the women returned to work. A moment passed and then Aine spoke. "You say that you and Wentworth have not been together but a few days. I find it miraculous."

Anne attempted to assuage her curiosity about Aine's observations by cleaning up around all the serving dishes, crocks, and boxes scattered about. The task did nothing to ease her mind. "And what is miraculous about us being together such a short time?"

She looked up from her work, brushed a lock of hair from her forehead, and smiled wide. "Because, he is very much in love with you, silly."

Anne was shocked at Aine's frankness. She tried to find words with which to respond, but there were none to be had.

"A man may have lustful thoughts about practically any woman. It shows in the eyes. But true love—which shines quite brightly in the Captain's lovely brown eyes—is an emotion born only of time and thought."

The words sounded so well in her ears. The thought that Frederick might genuinely love her still, so much so that a stranger could see it, was astonishing. However, if that were the case, why did she not see it, or sense it in some way? Her cautious nature caused her to step back from the high emotion of optimism and settle back on the safer ground of rationality.

"I doubt that Frederick—the Captain sees me as anything more than a burden."

"Why-a-burden?" Aine kneading bread dough punctuated each word. "It is clear to me when he looks upon your face, he sees not a burden, but a woman of great worth."

It would be so easy, so enjoyable to run headlong into belief that Aine was right about Frederick's feelings. For all of what seemed to be insight, the woman did not know either of them and to make such a claim was as much a guess about them both as it was a proclamation of true understanding. "The Captain is merely doing his duty." It hurt to say it, but to hope for more was to face the possibility of utter disappointment. She picked up some spoons and took them to a bowl of hot water on the far end of the table.

"He may well be doing only his duty, but please do not toy with me and try to make me believe that the two of you have known one another for only a few days."

She began to pick up various items in need of cleaning as she returned to Aine. "You are correct. We have known one another for some time. It was over two years this past autumn. We met when he came to visit his family in the area where I live."

Aine smiled. "And where is that?" She had finished with the bread, and was now clearing up the table.

"Somerset."

"Is that near Plymouth or Portsmouth?"

"My home is nowhere near either. We are a fair bit away from the sea."

"But he is a sailor."

"Yes, he was in the navy at the time. He was visiting his brother just after return to England after a great battle in the West Indies." She folded a cloth and saw not the task, but remembered only her first look of him in his uniform.

"I assumed when he introduced himself, he meant that he was the captain of his own fishing boat, or something of that nature. I did not suspect him to be an officer in the King's navy." She turned to wipe the table. "We must ready the dishes and such for dinner now."

"Yes. Well, he was not a full captain when I met him; he was but a commander then. It is new—the elevation to captain—but I think he is no longer in the service."

"What makes you think this? Why did he not remain in the navy? Time are hard and an income of any size is very desirable."

Seeing him in his role of smuggler was painful and she wished she had not told the woman anything. "He wished a change of occupation."

Her only response was a low, gentle murmur. "Time to get the pudding in the pot." To Anne she said, "You two never thought to marry?"

"My family did not view it as a suitable match."

"Ah, families can be the cause of so much heartache, can they not?"

"Yes, yes they can. So, in answer to your first question, we are not together, other than his being forced to travel with me."

Aine laughed and finished tying the cloth around the pudding. She looked at Anne as she passed to the hearth and a pot of boiling water. "I can see in your face that you do not believe me, but I still believe you are…." She lowered the pudding into the water, making sure the wooden spoon, which held the bag, was secure on the pot's rim. After she ensured the other dishes were progressing to her satisfaction, she returned to the table. "I don't mean to pry, and I wasn't casting aspersions; heaven knows I should be the last to say anything about the affairs of others; but any fool can see the man is in love with you."

Though Anne was coming to think in many ways Aine was a very clever woman, she doubted she knew her or Frederick all that well.

*  *  *

Wentworth was trowelling on the last of the plaster, covering the wattle wall where it met the ceiling. From the corner of his eye, Wentworth saw Aine step into the doorway of the room. She studied him for a moment and then summoned them both to dinner. On hearing the call, Tomas grunted it was about bleedin' time, dropped his paintbrush mid-stroke, and walked away from the mess of plaster, whitewash, buckets, and rags. Wentworth quickly put some order to clutter, taking care to cover the buckets with rags so as not to waste perfectly good whitewash and plaster. He wiped his hands as best he could, and just before joining the others, he prayed Anne did not notice his desperate need for soap and water.

In a neat twist of irony, it was left to Wentworth to say grace over the Christmas meal. Tomas made it clear he felt not the slightest need to thank any man or god for food he provided. "Would you, Captain? I think we must prove to Miss Anne we are not savages," Aine said. Before the prayer was finished, Cavan entered the house and took a seat next to the woman. With this new arrangement, the table was more unbalanced than before. Aine, Tomas, and now Cavan were the seated on the one side. On the other, Anne and Frederick were bookended by the two little girls. For young children, the girls took up a great deal of space on the bench; so much so that he and Anne were shoulder-to-shoulder. There was so little room that their plates not only touched, but rested one on the other.

Unlike a fashionable dinner, the platters were passed with everyone having as much of each dish as they liked. Tomas took from every dish as it passed by him, though he did not lift more than a fork. The little girls spoke to one another in Gaelic behind their backs, while the adults, except Tomas, spoke English. The conversation was about mostly about the new room. And though they all spoke of it as a great boon to the household, Wentworth was still never certain if it was to be occupied by Cavan. Though they all seemed to speak feely, he was never precisely sure who Cavan and the girls were in relation to Tomas and Aine. Who would occupy the room, or that it would be occupied at all remained a mystery. It mattered not. All he cared about was how well Anne looked after a good night's rest.

"Tomas says the room should be done this evenin'. That means you're leavin' in the morning?" Cavan ended his question by poking a heaping spoon of potatoes into his mouth. A large gobbet clung to the corner of his mouth. Anne took pity on him and cleared her throat while dabbing at her mouth with her napkin. Cavan took no notice.

Wentworth took a drink of his ale. Tomas had grudgingly brought it out when coaxed by Aine. He looked towards Cavan, but took care to avoid the potatoes. "Yes, I think we will be on our way tomorrow. And very grateful that you took us in." He nodded to Tomas—who was engaged in the brutal sawing of a slice of beef—and then to Aine. It was to her he was most grateful, for she took care of Anne's feet in particular; the most worrisome and dangerous aspect of the journey thus far.

"Yes, thank you all for your hospitality. And, thank you for the shoes, Aine. I have never had such a delightful colour. I shall treasure them."

"You are welcome, Miss Anne. Cavan, tell them what we've decided." Aine wiped away the gobbet and gave his mouth a general tidying in what seemed to Wentworth to be a rather tender gesture. Again he thought these strange people. The sooner he got Anne away from this place, the more at ease he would feel.

For a moment, there seemed to be a disagreement. Cavan and Aine spoke very low, with glances towards Anne and Wentworth. Tomas merely grunted now and then. Aine eventually smiled, and said, "You may have the use of Cavan's little pony cart. It will be an easy ride into Dublin in it. And it will keep the shoes from harm."

This was a stroke of good fortune indeed! Wentworth had gotten from Tomas that they were approximately four miles from Dublin, and the use of the cart would get them there with no difficulty. He would be able to take Anne to her cousin's house, return the cart, and then go to the rendezvous point where Harville would hopefully still be waiting.

With all the needs of the next day seen to, Wentworth settled down to enjoy the rest of the meal. When it was time for the Christmas pudding, he braced himself and was determined to eat it with good cheer and a smile. Aine gave him a knowing look when she placed a slice on his plate. Cavan did not care for any—too many bloody nuts and such—and the little girls were off to play already. Aine was extraordinarily generous with the hard sauce. Everyone was poised for their first bite when Tomas squawked and spit a large gob of it across the table.

He cursed in Gaelic, and continued to spit little bits of the pudding all over the table covering.

Wentworth glanced at Anne. She looked horrified and sat with a spoonful halted mid bite.

Aside from Tomas's violent antic, Aine's reaction was the strangest of them all. She sat unmoving, watching Tomas, smiling faintly.

Tomas paused his spitting and cursing to ask who made the pudding.

"Miss Anne did, sir." Aine sounded genuinely shocked.

The old man made a gross noise, slammed his napkin to the table, and left the cottage.

Wentworth glanced at Anne. Her head was bowed, her cheeks crimson. She was biting her lower lip, and she still held the spoon.

Cavan laughed. Aine herself giggled as she looked to the younger man. "I think Tomas did not appreciate the addition of the entire kidney to the Christmas pudding, Miss Anne. As for you, Cavan, I think you should know better than to laugh at the foibles of a guest."

Anne looked up and watched Cavan leave the table. She looked to Aine for a long moment and then she turned to Wentworth. "I am sorry. I know nothing about this sort of thing." Her cheeks were redder still, and her expression was the embodiment of anguish.

His heart bled for her. He glanced at Aine. She still looked at Anne. Her smile never changed.

Wentworth had been appreciative of Aine and her intervention with Tomas, and her helpfulness with Anne. This sly enjoyment of Anne's embarrassment was uncharacteristic with her previous behaviour. However, it did not shock him that she seemed to take pleasure in another woman's humiliation. He realised he had sketched her character in accordance with the surroundings. He again suspected she did not belong in this place. He knew little of how ordinary women treated one another. It was clear Aine was not an ordinary woman.

She had put down the spoon, and was now gathering the dishes and utensils about her. She paused in her task to look directly at Aine. "I am sorry I have ruined the meal, Aine. And after you have been so kind to us." It was obvious that Anne was no ordinary woman either.

Aine’s expression varied little and she made no attempt to comfort her guest.

Wentworth laughed. Both women looked at him, both very surprised.

"And here I thought the pudding was just being made in the style of Liverpool."

Anne looked confused, while Aine raised a brow. "You are not serious, sir." She glanced at Anne and then back to Wentworth. "I cannot believe that in Liverpool they eat Christmas pudding with the entire kidney in it."

Anne still had nothing to say, but studied him intently. "I am very serious. They are mostly poor in that city and there is no reason to waste a bit of good food." Anne's expression eased some. She looked away when she realised he now watched her. To Aine he said, "I find it a bit exotic, but I think those Liverpoolians are onto something." To prove his point, he took a huge bite and concocted an expression as brimming with delight as was humanly possible.

Aine studied Wentworth for a moment, and then looked towards Anne. There was a shade of annoyance to her expression, he thought, but it passed quickly and she soon rose to begin clearing the table.

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